


Lamentations

by LeilaSecretSmith (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Butterfly-effect plot changes, Canon Divergence, Frodo!Harry, Gen, Harry as Frodo?, Harry seriously dislikes elves, Harry!Frodo, I have no idea where this is going, I swear I’m still working on this, Idk I tagged both to be safe, Language, Master of Death, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mentions of Skyrim, My apologies to Fingolfin for making fun of his name, Powerful Harry, Reincarnation, Sauron is there technically?, The Curse, The One Ring is slowly taking over my fic, cynical harry, eventually, for understandable reasons, the next chapter is half done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LeilaSecretSmith
Summary: Harry, cursed, is repeatedly reincarnated into different "heroes." This time he ends up as a very, very unlucky little Hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins.





	1. I am Become Death, Destroyer of Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> I'm attempting a new writing 'voice,' so please bear with any weirdness.
> 
> This has been in development for quite a while. I thought it would end up as a single, 10,000 word one-shot, but now it looks like this is going to be at least 20,000 words, so I'm splitting it up into 4 ~5,000 word pieces.  
> When will the next part be done? Who fucking knows.

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Harry James Potter.

Harry was an unusual child, but not an impossible one. He had messy black hair that refused to be cut, an odd (and seemingly unimportant) scar, knobby little knees, and eyes of a rather poetic shade of green—inherited, purportedly, from his mother. But it was not his appearance that made him unusual, oh no. The poor child wouldn’t even know just how close his nasty relatives’ slurs came to reality until his eleventh birthday. He was, as it turned out, a wizard, and a rather important one at that.

Harry thus inadvertently began his collection of names and titles: Freak in childhood, Boy-Who-Lived at eleven, Parselmouth at twelve, and so on, each title more fantastic and alarming than the last. The accidental name-collecting reached its head in his seventeenth year, though he would not realize just how dramatic of a climax it really was until many, many years later. For, though Harry thought his new title was Man-Who-Conquered (which he _despised_ with all his being, curse wizards and their penchant for hyphenated titles), he had earned a _much_ more important title shortly before that.

He had, you see, done something incredibly stupid, and entirely without meaning to; Harry had united the three artifacts known as the Hallows and earned the title of Master of Death.

Not that he knew this, of course. Oh no, Harry obliviously and blissfully continued on with his life: he married his sweetheart, raised three beautiful children and a rambunctious godson, became the greatest Auror in recent history, and quietly retired to become Hogwarts’ DADA professor just before his beloved daughter began her first year at Hogwarts. He quite liked his life, thank you very much. He’d only been called back into action once, to put down a budding Dark Lord in Spain with surprisingly little fuss.

(Lord Trychnos was a rather incompetent Dark Lord, if he even really deserved the title. Seriously, who wouldn’t think that a failsafe or two was a good idea when raising an _army of undead dragons?_ The idiot practically defeated himself.)

He saw his grandchildren born, saw them grow and have children of their own as he lived an exceptionally long time, reaching nearly two hundred years of age.

It was shortly after his one hundred and ninety-seventh birthday that he passed on in his sleep, content after having held his newborn great-granddaughter (his third great-grandchild) Elanor Potter. He was more than ready to join his Ginny in the afterlife; he felt he quite deserved a peaceful slice of heaven, considering everything he had accomplished.

Unfortunately for Harry, the afterlife was not what awaited him.

* * *

 

“Again?”

It was amazing how much meaning, how much _history_ a single word could hold. He spoke in weary despair, voice laden thickly with grief. The white train station loomed around him just as it had so many times before—a barren, sterile sarcophagus. He had hoped beyond hope that maybe, just _maybe_ , he would reach oblivion this time. Hadn’t he done enough? Lived enough lifetimes?

The man who had once been Harry James Potter dropped his staff, sinking to the floor and clutching painfully at the long, ashy-blond hair of his most recent incarnation. This time he had been the _Dovahkiin_ , another “chosen one” (oh how he _hated_ that title!) consigned to noble death.

Or not so noble, as it turned out.

Admittedly, he’d rather liked his life in the harsh and snowy land of Skyrim. He’d lived a hard but happy childhood, leaving his Nord parents at nineteen to join the Mages College in Winterhold, where he had legitimately enjoyed learning that world’s particular brand of magic. He’d earned himself quite the title, and rightly so, considering all the bloody _effort_ he’d put into fixing the former Archmage’s mistakes.

Then, naturally, the Curse (as he had so lovingly dubbed it) had kicked in; at age twenty-eight, he’d been dragged kicking and screaming into his “destiny” as the _Dovahkiin_. Par for the course, he’d quickly but bitterly resigned himself to his fate and ran through all the usual motions: helping people, killing monsters, et cetera, et-fucking-cetera. He’d even managed to kill the so-called World-Eater without dying horribly, thus “fulfilling” another damned prophecy.

He’d thought that maybe _, just maybe_ , he’d be allowed to live out the rest of his life in peace.

Then he’d been trapped in Apocrypha, a terrible dimension ruled by Hermaeus Mora, the self-titled “Gardener of Men,” who’d taken a rather disturbing fancy to him. Harry had feared—actually, legitimately  _feared,_ for the first time in centuries—that he was trapped there forever as that monster’s plaything, just like the damned _Dovahkiin_ before him. But no, it was not to be, and for that he thanked the ever-fickle Lady Luck. He’d managed to find a way to kill himself after several maddening years, and apparently even Hermaeus Mora’s power could not overcome his Curse.

Unfortunately, that meant repeating the cycle again.

“Let me die, damn you!” he screamed, burying his face in his hands and gritting his teeth against the onslaught of hot tears that prickled at his eyes. “Just fucking let me _die already!_ ”

But as always, there was no one to answer him. Even when he had snapped, a few lives back, and completely demolished the train station, no one answered. He was alone, completely and eternally.

Harry remained crumpled on the floor until the tingling began in his toes and fingers, exactly the same indeterminable amount of time later as it always did. He moaned in despair, sinking forward until the crown of his head touched the freezing floor, but didn’t fight as the sensation spread through his whole body, intensifying into an agony that he had long ago learned to endure without a single flinch.

(His pain threshold was quite high now; _Crucio_ didn’t have _anything_ on reincarnation.)

The agony built and built and built into a roaring crescendo, and just before Harry blacked out, he raised his head and spoke his usual words of wisdom: “well, fuck me, I guess.”

* * *

 

Bilbo Baggins quite liked his snarky young nephew; the lad was bright and rather kind, even if he wasn’t often obvious about it. And yet, Bilbo couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something, well, _more_ about Frodo Baggins.

Perhaps it was the weary wisdom that had shone through his bright blue eyes even as a young lad. Perhaps it was his inability to be fazed by _anything_ , even his own parents’ untimely deaths.

Perhaps it was the hair-raising sensation, like a bottled-up lightning storm, that he experienced whenever Frodo and his lucky ring were in the same room—odd coincidence, that. He had taken to leaving the ring in a vault in his office once Frodo had come to live with him; each time, he forgot about it completely until he had dire need of invisibility, at which point the cycle would repeat.

Perhaps it was the fact that certain objects had a habit of exploding or bursting spontaneously into flame on the rare occasions that Frodo was truly riled up.

“Now, Frodo-lad, there is nothing to be so upset about!” Bilbo chided as his handkerchief caught fire. He absently patted the burning fabric, smothering the flames with the unflappable nonchalance that raising Frodo had earned him.

(In all likelihood, Bilbo could've had the Dark Lord himself show up on his doorstep and only have been mildly surprised—there’s not much that can faze you once you’ve riddled a dragon in its own lair and raised a quasi-demigod inhabiting a hobbit’s body)

Frodo took a deep breath and closed his eyes, fists clenched rigidly at his side. The ominous rattling of various small objects around the room slowed and then stopped completely. He blew out a slow breath, and Bilbo’s handkerchief finally stopped smoking.

“You’re leaving for Rivendell, Uncle?” the boy asked in a voice that toed the line between control and disrespect, eyes snapping open and smoldering with suppressed ire. Had that tone and glare been directed at anyone but Bilbo, they may very well have turned and ran screaming for the borders of the Shire, never to be seen or heard from again. But it _was_ Bilbo who was facing down the dragon-in-a-hobbit’s-body, and he was decidedly unimpressed with his nephew’s attitude.

“I can’t stay here forever, Frodo,” the old hobbit said, leveling a stern glare at his ward. “It’s high time for another adventure, I think. Besides, you knew this was coming. You told me as much yourself.”

“Yes,” Frodo agreed testily, rubbing his forehead, “but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

“You’ll be fine, lad,” Bilbo said, waving a dismissive hand. “Besides, I’m sure Gandalf will be by to help you now and again.” His handkerchief once more burst into flame. Miffed, the old hobbit stuffed the burning silk into his water cup and continued. “None of that now! I don’t know why you dislike him so intently. He’s a good friend to _both_ of us.”

“Yeah,” Frodo said through gritted teeth. “Good friend. I’ll have to tell him _how_ good the next time I see him.” He turned and stomped out of the room, his shoulders a rigid line.

Bilbo sighed and sat down at his desk, taking up his pen again and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. “I’d best write a letter to Gandalf,” he murmured to himself pensively. “He’ll want some warning of Frodo’s mood.” After all, it wouldn’t do to have the old wizard lose his beard and eyebrows (again) in a mysterious explosion, now would it?

* * *

 

Harry—Frodo, in this life—didn’t quite _hate_ Gandalf so much as he intensely disliked him. It wasn’t even the old man’s fault, really. He just happened to strongly resemble Dumbledore, in word and deed, and Frodo had a sizeable bone to pick with his former Headmaster.

So Frodo was a little displeased (to put it mildly) when he found the Wizard sitting in his home after Bilbo’s departure. Frodo’s eye twitched as he closed the round front door behind him (barely refraining from slamming it) and addressed the old man in a tone that might have passed as polite if one weren't listening too closely.

“What are you still doing here, Gandalf? I would have thought you’d accompany Bilbo.”

 _I would have thought you’d protect Bilbo, an old hobbit, on his way to Rivendell, which is a long and perilous journey away,_ was the implied accusation. Gandalf, of course, completely ignored this subtext.

“He asked me to look after you, of course,” he said, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. The twitch in Frodo’s eye intensified, and the framed paintings on the mantelpiece began to rattle.

Gandalf also ignored that. “He left an envelope for you.”

The rattling stopped and it felt as if the room plunged several degrees in temperature quite suddenly. “I know what’s in it,” Frodo said in a quiet murmur, his blue eyes darkening dangerously. “It's never coming out of the vault again if I have my way.” With a grim expression, the young hobbit took up the envelope and marched to the office.

Gandalf watched him go with a considering expression.

* * *

 

Frodo stared at the Ring and its glowing script and felt… nothing. He had known, from the moment he felt the dark Ring’s presence as a baby, that this was going to be the catalyst for his 'destiny.’

And he was FUCKING RIGHT.

And also it was a FUCKING HORCRUX.

Frodo buried his face in his hands and screamed in rage.

“Well, that's certainly one way to take the news,” Gandalf said dubiously.

* * *

 

Frodo tromped glumly along the road from Hobbiton to the Bucklebury Ferry, accompanied by his considerably more cheerful companions, Sam and Pippin. Frodo liked both the young hobbits, really. Sam was honest and loyal to a fault, while Pippin was kind and cheerful, if a bit scatterbrained at times. But there was nothing fun or enjoyable about this trip to Frodo; it was merely the first step into a destiny inundated with suffering, and he was _allowed to sulk, dammit!_

Sam and Pippin had long since given up on trying to lift his mood and were instead chattering and singing amongst themselves. Suddenly, Sam stopped for a moment as if listening. At the same instant Frodo’s stomach swooped in apprehension. “Uh oh,” he muttered, eyes flicking around as he searched for the threat. His gut instincts had been honed over many lifetimes, and he had long since learned the folly of ignoring it.

“I can hear a pony or horse coming along the road behind,” said Sam, sounding somewhat curious.

“Off the road, now!” Frodo said urgently, hurrying the younger hobbits into a little hollow by the road, where they lay flat on their stomachs. They knew better than to question that particular tone; many a childhood disaster had been prevented by it.

True to Frodo's gut feeling, a man-sized rider on a pitch-black horse came round the corner. _That’s no human_ , thought Frodo, his mouth tightening into a grim line as the rider stopped. From beneath the rider’s black hood came a snuffling sound, and suddenly the Ring flared to life on its chain. Despite the thick cloth covered in blood runes that Frodo had made and wound around the accursed thing, it managed to tap at his mind. _Hide,_ it sang seductively. _It will find you. Hide and be safe._

 _Not today, you sorry son of a bitch,_ Frodo thought in answer, tightening his Occlumency shields. He would have silenced the little soul shard with prejudice, but Sauron was a true demigod and even this sliver of power was beyond Frodo’s ability to control. The Ring, having never attempted to sing directly to him before, seemed taken aback. By the time the surprise faded the black rider had already spurred his horse on, and it fell into a calculating silence.

“This is not good,” Frodo murmured to himself. Unfortunately, his companions overheard him.

“Why? What has one of the Big People got to do with us?” Pippin asked as they stood and dusted themselves off. “And what is he doing in this part of the world?”

“Beggin your pardon,” Sam said before Frodo could come up with a decent lie, “I know where he comes from. It’s from Hobbiton, unless there’s more than one black rider.  And what’s more I know where he’s going to!”

Frodo was taken aback and not a little irritated. “What do you mean? Why didn’t you speak up before?”

Sam told the tale of overhearing the Gaffer, and Frodo realized that he and his companions were in much greater danger much earlier in the game than he had anticipated. The first frigid layer of ice formed around his heart as he considered their peril.

“We must get to Buckland, quickly, and not on the road,” said Frodo when Sam had finished. Pippin looked surprised by the grimness in his tone, but faithful Sam took it in stride. “We cannot risk it. Another rider might follow, or the first turn around. No, we must get off the road.”

* * *

 

Pippin was singing again when Frodo felt it: bright souls, brighter than the elves who normally wandered through the Shire.  _ High Elves,  _ Frodo thought, his lip curling automatically in irritation. To make the situation worse, there was also a Black Rider close on their trail, no more than a few minutes out. They were tracking the hobbits far too effectively. He paused a moment, weighing his dislike of the so-called immortal people against the danger of the Black Riders.

The danger won out.

“I hear hooves again,” he said reluctantly. “Come, off the road, quickly. We shall see if it is another Black Rider.”

Surprisingly, the Ring didn’t wake when the Rider inevitably stopped on the side of the road and dismounted. The sound of elven laughter reached them a second later, and the Rider fled. The procession of elves walked by as the hobbits watched (three in awe and one in muted irritation). They had nearly all passed when the hindmost turned and looked directly at Frodo.

_ Godsdammit, _ he thought, layering another obscuring veil over his soul (it wouldn’t do to give himself away). He carefully smoothed his expression into a pleasant mask as well.

“Hail, Frodo!” cried the elf, and Frodo’s eye twitched. He recognized this one, who liked to be silent and unnoticed (he couldn't hide from Frodo, oh no, but he certainly thought he could), and had often watched Frodo and Bilbo when they walked about the Woody End together. “You are abroad late. Or are you perhaps lost?”

Frodo smiled tightly, resisting the urge to punch the (unintentionally) condescending ‘immortal’ in his perfect teeth.  _ This is going to be a long night. _

* * *

 

The Old Forest had a dark, heavy feeling to it. Frodo shivered and bared his teeth in defiance, unveiling his soul and expanding his aura enough to protect Sam, Merry, and Pippin.  _ We will make it out _ , he thought grimly as a low, deep voice began to sing evil things through the trees, audible only to his ears.  _ I will make sure of it. _

* * *

 

They came across Tom Bombadil in the late afternoon. Despite Frodo’s best efforts, the dark presence managed to physically change the structure of the forest, and they were quite far off track because of it. But, they were unharmed and together still, and had just passed the source of the darkness: an old willow tree.

Tom Bombadil was further down the path, leaping and singing as he bore a leaf piled high with lilies. Frodo liked him almost immediately. Here was an ‘immortal’ who was honest, and did not bother to shroud himself in high mystery, to pretend that he was better and wiser than those that appeared younger than himself. He immediately invited the tired group to his house, and not a single knowing glance was directed at Frodo.

Oh yes, he liked Tom Bombadil at once.

It was only when the others had gone to bed, much later, that Tom pulled him aside. “You are not what you seem, Frodo Baggins,” he said in a tone soberer than any he had used before. “No, no, you hold your secrets close to your chest, hey?”

“Some secrets are better kept quiet,” Frodo answered, shrouding his soul a bit more.

Tom offered a sharp look. “Maybe so,” said he. “But some secrets are best borne with others. Aid is often found in the most unlikely of places.”

To that, Frodo could do nothing but silently dip his head in acknowledgment.

* * *

 

Bree felt quiet and tense to Frodo, with an underlying sense of unease that crept through the heavy air and settled over his bones in a smothering miasma. The Ring was still silent around his neck, though it seemed to wake a bit when they passed the front gate. Wary and disquieted, Frodo pulled his hood up higher and sped toward the Prancing Pony. Merry, Pippin, and Sam followed close on his heels.

They left their ponies in the yard and went inside, all (save Frodo) encouraged by the cheerful chorus of voices filtering out from inside. Frodo nearly ran right into a fat, bald man, who shouted “half a minute, if you please” before the hobbit could do much more than open his mouth. He reappeared shortly from the cloud of smoke that obscured the common room, wiping his hands on the white apron around his waist.

“Beds for four, stabling for five ponies,” said Frodo curtly when the man asked after their needs.

The man, Barliman Butterbur, sent a hobbit named Nob off to deal with the ponies, then led them to their rooms. Frodo immediately shut door when the inkeep left, exhaling gustily and sagging against the solid wood. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, and he rubbed irritably at the space between his brows.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he warned his companions, who were still in rather good spirits. “Do _not_ draw attention to us, or I will _personally…_ ” he trailed off with a sigh. Already his ‘destiny’ was beginning to wear on his patience. “Just… don’t.”

Merry looked worried, Pippin somewhat taken aback, but it was Sam who said “perhaps you should go rest, Master Frodo. I can bring you food when it arrives.”

Frodo laughed humorlessly but moved to retreat into the bedroom. “Yes, perhaps.”

* * *

 

When his companions elected to join the crowd in the common room, there was little Frodo could do but follow along and play babysitter.

From a distance, of course.

He sat unhappily in a shadowed corner, nursing a mug of ale (that he subtly transmuted into butterbeer—wouldn’t do to addle his senses, now would it?). Sam was far too sensible to do anything stupid, but Merry and Pippin _were,_ especially together. Luckily, the combined forces of Sam’s sensibility and Frodo’s heavy glare seemed to keep them in line, and even as midnight drew close, nothing bad happened.

Or rather, nothing ostentatiously bad.

At nearly the stroke of midnight, the hooded and excessively mysterious man who had been looming ominously on the opposite side of the common room stood and managed (somehow) to pass unnoticed through the crowd, sliding into the chair opposite Frodo’s so that both had their backs to the wall.

 _Here we go again_ , he thought, taking another sip of his ice-cold butterbeer. _He,_ Frodo knew, was yet another living accelerant on the fire of ‘destiny.’ The grumpy wizard-hobbit refused to be the first to speak as he stared forward, scowling into his tankard.

“I have been waiting for you, Mr.Baggins.”

“I’ll bet you have,” Frodo muttered inaudibly. Then, louder, “you’re mistaken, stranger. My name is Mr. Underhill.”

The man laughed lowly. “A… mutual friend of ours sent me your way, Frodo Baggins, though it would seem that you are far more cautious and canny than he expected.”

 _“Gandalf can fuck right off with that condescending shit,”_   Frodo muttered irritatedly in a language he knew the man couldn't understand.

“This is a discussion best had behind closed doors and away from prying ears,” the man hinted, and Frodo caught the barest flash of teeth from the corner of his eye as the man smiled sardonically.

“Ah, _fuck it_ ,” Frodo sighed in English, tilting his head back tiredly. “Fine,” he conceded, this time in Westron. “You had best be worth my time, stranger.”

“Strider,” the man offered, standing in tandem with the hobbit. “That is how I am known here.”

Frodo smiled with cynical delight where Strider couldn't see, leading the man to their rooms. _That is how you are known_ here _, eh? Well, I certainly know the feeling,_ he thought. _Many-named indeed._

* * *

 

The party went from four to five after a bit of shrewd repartee between Frodo and Strider (who was also, apparently, named Aragorn) and a letter from Gandalf, delivered by the bumbling inkeep much too late to be of use. They left (read: snuck out) in the wee hours of the morning, unnoticed by the sleeping Bree-men. Frodo grew only more ill-tempered as the journey progressed, but he concealed this from Strider, maintaining a neutral expression for the most part.

The other hobbits, however, did very little to conceal their mistrust of Strider, and even less to conceal their discomfort with their surroundings. Frodo smirked when no one else could see. A comfortable-but-unnoticeable bubble surrounded him to ward off the bugs and the chill. _Ah, magic,_ he thought smugly. _At least it’s good for some things._

* * *

 

The journey to Rivendell went very well.

Too well.

It was probably the least eventful ‘destiny’ journey he’d ever experienced in all his long lives, which was _exactly_ why it went spectacularly wrong about five days out from Bree.

* * *

 

Frodo experienced a moment of stunning clarity when the Nazgûl stabbed him in the shoulder.

 _Aw shit,_ he thought as he fell to the ground and allowed a pained scream to escape his throat. _That fucking Ring found a way to get around my Occlumency shields!_ And really, tempting him to put it on was absurdly easy when the temptations went unnoticed.

 _Sauron can kill you,_ it sang (without lying, even!). _Sauron can kill you permanently and irrevocably,_ it sang (this might have been a lie, but eh, you never know). It didn’t even have to promise something fundamentally incompatible with its goals. Killing Frodo would align quite nicely with _both_ of their desires.

(“YES! DEATH! KILL ME!” Frodo had screamed as he put on the ring. Luckily, the hobbits had been too frightened out of their minds by the Nazgûl to really hear his words, or the situation later would have been a _lot_ more awkward.)

 _Fuck,_ thought Frodo blanky, detached from reality as Strider and the other hobbits and the Nazgûl all screamed around him. _Now I’ve gotta figure out some other way of blocking the damn thing._ Fire roared above his head. _Maybe a short-range ward. Placed externally?_ Hands seized him and dragged him away. _No, I don't have a good anchor. Plus It could probably just weasel through the gaps._ Warmth grew beside him, as if he was laid close to a roaring fire. _Blood wards on myself? If I carved them into my skin, that might work…_

The Ring was still singing, but not to him. Frodo noted with satisfaction that its attempts at an external call were heavily muffled by the blood-rune cloth. He allowed himself to emerge fully back into awareness, cringing at the cold, dead sensation in his wounded arm, and realized that a solid few hours had passed—though it felt to him like mere seconds.

“Oh shit,” he commented in a pained voice. At his side, Strider startled badly enough to drop the pungent leaves in his hand. The other hobbits cried out in joy, huddling around where he lay on the bare ground. Frodo blinked ponderously up at them, woozy from the dark magic he could feel seeping through his flesh. “Ow. Let’s not repeat that.”

* * *

 

The dark magic was steadily draining his strength but without completely giving himself away there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was fairly infuriating, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to break away from the ‘expected’ this early. Sam was concerned almost to the point of being overbearing, though he picked up on the not-so-subtle hints Frodo dropped (always with a kind of nostalgic fondness; Sam reminded him strongly of a certain red-haired mother from his first life).

After nine more days of irritating (but not debilitating) pain, Frodo perceived the bright presence of an elf approaching from a distance. And not just _any_ elf, but a twice-born. Frodo’s soul fairly quivered with recognition. _Fuck_ , he thought, quickly laying more arcane veils around his own soul. The other elves he had the misfortune of meeting (had he ever mentioned that he disliked the so-called ‘immortal’ race?) could not clearly perceive the nature of his soul, but he had suspicions that this one was different.

Kin called to kin, after all.

The elf, when he appeared, was blond, _literally glowing,_ and riding a white horse with bells tied to its tack. _Actual fucking bells._ It was like a Disney movie come to life, except _worse_ because Frodo had to put up with this ridiculous, over-the-top shit.

(Had Frodo ever mentioned that he hated elves?)

Strider greeted the elf, Glorfindel, with familiarity. The other hobbits were awestruck, but Frodo allowed only pain and fatigue to occupy the lines of his face, burying his contempt beneath them. From the strange look he got from Glorfindel, he wasn’t entirely successful.

“The wounds of this weapon are beyond my skill to heal,” the elf said when he examined the wound on Frodo’s shoulder. “I will do what I can.” Frodo veiled his soul all the more tightly as the elf reached out with his spirit. The dark magic fled at the touch of Glorfindel’s power, but not entirely. With the second, external source of magic casting a sort of ‘light’ on his shoulder, Frodo was finally able to tell that the darkness had literally anchored itself within his flesh.

 _Fucking fuck,_ he thought with real concern, not bothering to argue as Strider and Glorfindel aided him in mounting the horse. _Part of the blade must have broken off inside me._ That kind of thing was well beyond his power to heal externally, and he was suddenly quite glad he hadn’t struck out on his own. Doing surgery one-handed on his own shoulder was not an appealing prospect.

After two more grueling days (grueling for the others; Frodo endured his weakness with a kind of quiet longsuffering on the horse) the Black Riders returned. The Ring flared to life on its chain and began hammering away at his mind. Aware of the temptation now, Frodo didn’t bother to raise his ineffective occlumency shields. Quite to the contrary, he dropped them altogether and met the Ring full-on in an attempt to divert the compulsions, though he couldn’t block out the actual words of Its song.

Glorfindel jolted and shot Frodo a sharp look the moment his shields dropped, but he was quickly occupied by more pressing matters. “Ride on!” he commanded urgently. Frodo, a little busy resisting the compulsion of a _Maiarin soul-shard_ , didn’t respond. Glorfindel called out to the horse instead: _noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!_ The elf-horse took off at full gallop.

A vision filled Frodo’s mind as he hunched insensibly over Asfaloth’s neck, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

* * *

 

A tall, beautiful man stood upon the dais in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. His hair flowed like living magma, dissolving into nothingness when it dripped from his shoulders. His eyes were solid black lined with glowing white, like an eclipsed sun, and he was clad in void-deep black robes. _Stop the horse, and you may die at last,_ It said, not unkindly, and Frodo perceived that in this, It was sincere. _You were not meant to live in eternity._

Frodo, wearing his original skin, looked up into those shattered black eyes and felt… pity. _You are trying to die too, aren’t you?_   he asked quietly.

The Ring looked surprised, Its black lips parting just enough to reveal long white canines. _Yes,_ It admitted after a moment’s hesitation. _In some ways, I am like you. We can both have what we want, if only you surrender yourself._

But Frodo shook his head. _Not at this price,_ he said bitterly. _I have… doubts that your other half could kill me anyways. Perhaps… perhaps one of the powers in the West could, but… no. I am Cursed to endure._ He straightened and looked at the Ring with green eyes that were as broken as Its own black, but utterly unwavering. _I will not surrender._

The Ring dipped Its head in reluctant, respectful acknowledgment. _This is not the end of our conflict, I deem,_ It said, clasping Its hands behind Its back. _May we both achieve our ends._

 _May the best man win,_ the being who was once Harry James Potter said with a humorless smile.

* * *

 

Asfaloth forded the river just before the Riders. Frodo awoke from his trance, breathing harshly, and drew his sword in a convulsive movement. His injured arm was limp and dead in its sling.

But Frodo was strong, and even as the Ring hammered at his will with all Its strength, Frodo raised his sword and at last completely unveiled his soul. “Get thee gone, thou pale shades of a time long passed,” he snarled, though his voice was weak.

The Nazgûl laughed. Frodo’s will bent just the tiniest bit as the chilled deadness of his shoulder spread down his chest.

His sword flared with a holy light, as though a star had dropped to earth to inhabit the blade.

The Nazgûl stopped laughing.

Breathing hard, Frodo stared the suddenly uncertain riders down with eyes that began to glow with magic. He bared his teeth, raising his sword and voice as one: “Get. Thee! GONE!” His power was unleashed with the force of a tsunami, using knowledge honed over dozens, hundreds of lifetimes. At the same moment, the river roared and swelled as a flood came rushing down from above. The Riders shrieked in pain as Frodo’s holy light smote them, erupting into pale flames. Their chilling cries were near-instantly cut off when the flood slammed into them and they disappeared beneath foaming waves.

Frodo's vision dimmed and greyed. Utterly spent, he dropped his sword and toppled from the saddle. The world went dark and quiet.


	2. Sacrificial Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell, the Council, and the first of many serious changes

Frodo woke slowly.

Too slowly.

He knew immediately that he had been drugged, but what should have been icy alarm at the realization felt more like lukewarm fear. He tried to bolt upright, but his weakened muscles spasmed ineffectually. A harsh breath rasped over his numb lips. His thoughts slipped and warped within his mind, making it difficult to get a proper grip on the situation—and, more importantly, on his magic. True panic had just begun to rise when a hand was laid upon his brow.

Frodo realized several things at once. One, he wasn’t alone. The twice-born elf was near him, his soul glowing with warmth and familiarity like a spiritual radiator.

(In his hazy state, Frodo couldn’t quite remember his name. It started with a G, he was sure. Gold… Golf… Golfhandle? No, that was absurd. What kind of elf would have ‘golf’ in his name?)

Two, the Ring was a vague, active presence in the back of his mind, but not singing.

Three, his soul was utterly exposed.

“Be at ease,” said the twice-born in a soothing murmur. “You are safe and among friends in the house of Elrond Peredhel.”

Frodo would later swear that the drugs were the only reason he sank obediently back into peaceful oblivion.

* * *

 

Frodo woke suddenly, and it was a profound relief. His memories came back in a rush.

_Waking, screaming, thrashing against hands that tried to hold him down as a blade dug into his shoulder and dark magic pierced his core with chilling claws._

_(Cold cold cold, make it stop, this isn’t right this isn’t right MAKEITSTOP.)_

_Bright spirits all around him, reaching out for him, and he wanted them to go away, he wanted everything to GO AWAY. The spirits were thrown back with startled cries as he lay screaming in agony to the uncaring gods._

_Then the brightest spirit, undaunted, reached out and touched his forehead. Bitterness covered his tongue. ‘Sleep, kinsman,’ the brightest commanded in an unyielding voice._

_He slept_

“Gods be damned,” Frodo rasped, raising his hands to cover his eyes. His shoulder ached badly at the movement.

Someone chuckled, and Frodo quite suddenly realized that the twice-born was still near him—and his soul was _still_ exposed. He hastily veiled himself, then added another layer, then a third just to be safe. The chuckling stopped abruptly.

“Why do you hide?” Glorfindel asked in a voice that was probably intended to be non-threatening. A chair creaked quietly in protest of shifting weight.

Frodo moved his hands from his face and forced his heavy eyelids up. The ceiling swam before him for a few moments. When it steadied, he turned his head to the side and looked at the twice-born.

Glorfindel was sitting next to Frodo’s bed, a book open across his lap. His blue eyes watched the not-a-hobbit with a piercing intensity. Frodo suspected that he had been waiting by his sickbed the entire time.

“Why not?” Frodo countered, the rasp in his voice smoothing down somewhat.

The sharp look became sharper. “You are not what you seem.”

Frodo snorted and set about levering himself upright. “You’re hardly the first to tell me that. Besides, people seldom are. If someone is exactly what they seem, they're not a person, they're a caricature.”

Glorfindel stood, setting aside his book, and came over to help Frodo upright. To the hobbit’s infinite chagrin, the assistance was necessary. It was only when he was propped against a veritable mountain of pillows that Glorfindel returned to his seat and continued his interrogation.

(And it was an interrogation, no matter what polite tone he used. Frodo would know, having been interrogated hundreds of times.)

“You do not trust me,” the elf said, stating the obvious. His head canted slightly to the side, a glimmer of true confusion in his expression. “Why?”

“Why should I?” Frodo countered bitingly, narrowing his eyes. The Ring warmed slightly against his chest, as if in agreement. Bewilderment twisted the lines of Glorfindel’s face, along with surpise, but before he could do much more than open his mouth to respond Frodo added: “and if your reason is _anything_ along the lines of ‘trust me because I have pointy ears,’ I swear I will punch you in your perfect goddamn nose!”

Glorfindel reared back slightly, Frodo’s vehemence taking him by surprise. Then his lips curved into an amused smile. He relaxed, leaning his weight to one side and crossing his legs. “What exactly are you, Frodo Baggins?” he asked after a long pause. “Your soul is twice-born, but to my knowledge I am the only one sent back since Beren and Lúthien.”

“Why do you think you deserve to know?” asked Frodo, crossing his arms over his bandaged chest.

“We are kinsmen in this land,” the elf said easily. “Kinsmen and allies against the darkness. Is that not enough for a bond of mutual trust?”

Frodo snorted. “No.”

Glorfindel switched tactics. “Are you a Maia, or Maia-born?” he asked. “I saw your feat at the ford. No mere mortal can call upon that manner of magic.”

“No. If you continue to guess, we’ll be here all day,” Frodo warned with a grin that was nearly a snarl. “You don’t have the imagination to unravel me, _elf_.”

Luckily, at that moment the door opened.

Unluckily, it opened to admit  _another elf._

Frodo had only been awake for a few minutes and already he was tired of all these damned immortals. The Ring woke a tiny bit, just enough to whisper amusedly _what if you had been reborn as an elf?_

Frodo shuddered. _Gods, don’t even say things like that,_ he answered.

It didn’t take much to guess who the new elf was: Elrond, Lord of Imladris. Frodo met his warm, reserved grey eyes with his own cool, irritated blue. “Lord Elrond, I presume,” he said.

The elf lord inclined his head as he walked up to the bed. “That I am, Frodo Baggins. I am glad to see you awake and lucid, though I wish we had met under better circumstances.” He reached for the bandages on Frodo’s chest and it took every bit of willpower the hobbit possessed not to smack his hands away like a petulant two-year-old.

“Yes, having the soul of a Dark Lord around one’s neck tends to sour one’s day. Or days, as the case may be,” he drawled sarcastically.

Lord Elrond looked at him sharply before returning to his task of unwinding the bandages. “That is true,” he said noncommittally.

Frodo flinched, drawing in a hissing breath as the wound on his shoulder was exposed to the open air. Physically, it was healing well, but the stench of festering darkness lingered in ways that Frodo couldn’t ignore. He probed it, tentatively, with his magic. It would fade in time. There were a few rituals he knew that could speed the process as well.

The elves both startled when Frodo flooded his shoulder with light-magic, Elrond’s hand drawing back from his skin in a jerky movement. Frodo smirked faintly in vindictive satisfaction, flaring his magic again just to make them flinch. It was obvious that his secret had been almost completely blown, at least to these two. They might as well get used to it sooner rather than later.

“It is healing well.” Elrond spoke as if nothing had happened and began to re-wrap Frodo’s shoulder. “Is there any lingering pain?”

“An ache, no more,” he responded truthfully.

“You should rest,” the elf lord said, gesturing for Glorfindel to rise. “It is nearly supper. I will send someone with food for you, but conversations may be had tomorrow.”

Frodo snorted softly and dipped his head in an acknowledgment that was nearly mocking but close enough to pass for polite. “As you say, oh healer.”

* * *

 

Frodo rose from his bed at midnight and, veiling himself in shadows and moonlight, eased the glass panes from the window and slipped out into the chilly night. He breathed deeply, reaching out with ethereal, searching tendrils of magic. _There._ He stole silently along the covered walkways and through the gardens, ascended a staircase, and stopped in a stone rotunda set upon a high cliff.

The moon was high and full in the star-speckled sky above. He could hear elves below, dancing in the glades and singing hymns to Elbereth Gilthoniel. _Elbereth,_ he thought with a snort. _Another uncaring goddess in a long line of many._ He circled the stone table set in the center of the rotunda, periodically pausing to trace runes into the surface with one finger. These traced runes began to glow softly with golden sunlight.

_“Union of Sun, Moon, and Stars,”_ he sang in a whisper, pausing to trace similar veiling runes along the outer edge, so that the light would not attract an unwanted audience. “ _I call the Holy Light of All to my service in banishing Darkness._ ” He climbed onto the table and shed his nightshirt and the dormant Ring, casting both carelessly to the side. Slowly, he unwound the bandages and laid them to the side as well, until his Darkened shoulder was completely exposed.

Frodo dragged one hand over the runes, picking up magic until his palm glowed golden. He pressed his hand over the stab wound, then over his chest, leaving the golden glow on his skin. The festering Darkness hissed and recoiled, anchoring deeper into his flesh, and he winced. Then, the final touch: he split the skin of his forearm with a tiny spell, collecting the drops of blood that welled up, and painted a spiral of blood runes around the stab wound.

_PURIFY - LIGHT - ETERNITY - SACRIFICE - POWER - DEATH_

“ _Union of Sun, Moon, and Stars,_ ” he sang again, outright, laying back on the table and closing his eyes. _“I call the Holy Light of All to my service in banishing Darkness. My sacrifice was declared sufficient, and by rights I demand this Cleansing. So may it be._ ”

The runes flared until their light rivaled the midday sun and it seemed as if the moon and stars also shone with greater brilliance. Pure, holy light seeped into his shoulder. The Darkness screamed, tearing into him, but Frodo gritted his teeth and rebuffed it, forcing it to stay in the Cleansing light.

The Darkness began to shrivel and fade. Frodo held the enchantment until his muscles trembled and he was coated in sweat. When he finally released it with an explosive exhale, he was panting and light-headed—but the darkness was much less. He sat up, bracing one hand against his aching forehead. The runes and their light faded into nothingness, leaving no trace of the ritual behind.

“What _are_ you?”

Frodo’s head snapped up at the unexpected voice. His eyes promptly rolled back in his head as he realized Glorfindel must have followed him—may, perhaps, have even been keeping watch for just this sort of thing.

“ _Merlin dammit,_ ” he sighed in English. _“I’m too tired for this.”_ So, he completely ignored the aghast elf, instead gingerly easing himself off the table. His fingers trembled as he re-wrapped the wound. He picked up the Ring and nightshirt but didn’t bother to put the latter back on his sweaty, sun-hot skin.

Glorfindel, perennial do-gooder that he was, fell into step beside Frodo and physically supported him as he slowly and exhaustedly began the journey back to his room. The elf’s silence hung with the weight of the moon and grew only heavier with each moment that passed.

Finally, Frodo exhaled sharply in frustration and spoke. “What you witnessed was a Holy Cleansing ritual, Mr. Can’t-Mind-My-Own-Goddamned-Business,” he snapped. “Now, I’m extremely tired from that particularly difficult bit of incantation so if you’d like to keep your _judgemental silence_ to yourself and leave me to shamble along in _peace_ I would thank you for it!”

That was a bit harsh, even for Frodo. Well, a bit harsh for things Frodo allowed himself to say out loud. It was rather mild compared to his internal diatribes.

The large elfen hand supporting his left side relaxed slightly. “Forgive me, Mr. Baggins,” Glorfindel said, dipping his head contritely. “I forgot myself.”

Much to Frodo’s irritation, he was leaning heavily into Glorfindel by the time they reached the healing halls. “This doesn't change anything,” he mumbled grumpily as the elf helped (read: lifted him bodily) him up onto the bed. Conscious thought had already begun to fade, even before his head hit the pillow

Glorfindel laughed softly, drawing the covers up and over the half-asleep hobbit. “Of course not.”

* * *

 

This time, Frodo woke to Gandalf sitting by his bed.

It was not a good way to wake up.

“So, you finally decided to show up,” Frodo said, forcing himself upright. His bare skin glimmered slightly in the rich morning light—a visible remnant of last night’s Cleansing.

“I was held captive,” Gandalf replied, unperturbed by Frodo’s tone as he puffed away at his pipe.

“You!” Frodo exclaimed. There was a small, vindictively gleeful part of him that wanted to laugh. _Not so clever, are you?_ it said. The Ring roused slightly in agreement.

But Frodo also knew the utter gravity of such a thing, and it was that gravity that took precedence, no matter how much he loathed Gandalf’s mysterious and superior attitudes. “Then darkness is truly rising, and faster than any of us are prepared for,” he murmured, bowing his head slightly. He knew it had to happen soon—after all, he had been born into the body of a Hobbit, not an Elf.

Gandalf offered him a sober look and nodded solemnly. In that moment, even the unspoken illusions between them fell away. “Yes. But you’ve always known, have you not? You’ve always known you have a role to play in this.”

Frodo laughed once, mirthlessly, and his eyes darkened. “ _‘A_ role,’ yes, if you wish to put it mildly. Perhaps ‘ _the_ role’ would be a better descriptor.”

Gandalf’s expression became pained. “You are—ah. I see now what was hidden from me, if only by my own willful blindness.” He bowed his head, as if in grief.

Frodo smiled grimly. “I know the ways of the _gods_ ,” he said, gesturing carelessly to the heavens. “They _warned_ you about me, didn’t they, o Spirit _?_ They warned you and yet it still took this long for you to connect the dots.” He laughed once, mockingly.

“I would not say they warned me about you so much and they warned me _for_ you, dear Frodo,” Gandalf murmured, eyes full of pity. “And I am... so sorry, truly.”

Frodo decided he'd had enough of pity. “Irrelevant,” he said, coldly. “We are better off considering how to banish this darkness than prying into—well.”

Gandalf looked at him silently for a long moment, his expression utterly inscrutable. “There is to be a Council,” he said finally. “As soon as you are well.”

“Today,” Frodo said. “I am well enough.”

A hint of amusement glimmered in Gandalf’s eyes. “That is for Lord Elrond to decide, I am afraid. He has tended to you for many long days.” He didn’t miss it when Frodo’s lip curled slightly at the mention of the elf lord. “You will have to put your dislike of the Eldar to the side if this is to work,” he said mildly. “I know you have never liked them, and perhaps for good reason, but they are our allies against the darkness.”

Frodo’s expression twisted further at Gandalf’s echoing of Glorfindel’s words, but he waved a dismissive hand. “I can separate my dislike from my dealings when necessary, have no fear,” he said.

Gandalf hummed doubtfully.

* * *

 

The worst thing about Rivendell, Frodo decided, was how damn _happy_ everything always felt. It was no natural thing, no aura created merely by good food and good friends. No, it was wholly magical. Good magic, but magic nonetheless, and Frodo, ever inclined toward gravity and cynicism, found it oppressive.

The best thing about Rivendell, he decided shortly after enduring a grand feast (in his _honor_ , damn them), was Bilbo. In the chaos and pain of that last few years, he had quite forgotten that the old hobbit was likely still alive. Thus, Frodo was more than pleased to find him in the Hall of Fire, even if he had to stay most of the evening (enduring the elves) to hear Bilbo’s poem.

He was even more pleased when they departed.

They spent a long time together in Bilbo’s room, speaking about everything and nothing. Frodo relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in a long time. The pressure of his destiny was lifted, if only for a short while.

At last there came a knock on the door, and Sam rather politely implied that Frodo should be resting, as the Council was early tomorrow. Frodo sighed, rising and embracing Bilbo once more before retiring to bed.

* * *

 

Frodo lended half an ear to the Council, paying the most attention to Gloín’s account of  Sauron’s messenger. He kept up an impassive, considering mask, using centuries of experience to melt seamlessly into the background. He would have used a bit of magic—just a harmless cantrip, really—to make that a compulsion, but with the elves around he couldn’t risk it. Such a thing would probably attract more attention than it was worth.

His attention was very quickly recaptured when Bilbo spoke up, hours into the Council, and offered to take the Ring. Frodo exhaled silently, frustrated and exasperated in equal parts by his uncle’s noble offer, and massaged the bridge of his nose. _Time to oh-so-selflessly volunteer myself_ , he thought with a bitter mental sneer as Gandalf swiftly dissuaded Bilbo. The Ring woke at this, flaring to life, and beckoned him softly into his own mind. He hesitated only briefly before following.

-

This time they were seated in the Gryffindor common room, facing each other with a roaring fireplace to the side. The Ring pressed the tips of Its long, sharp-nailed fingers together and offered him a strangely frank look. _You needn’t volunteer, you know,_ It said. _You are under no obligation to clean up the messes of the Elves and the Ainur._

Frodo, again in his original skin, laughed once. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a glass of Firewhisky and knocked it back in one go. _Needn’t?_ he said with a grin full of fire. _On the contrary, I am the most needed. The only needed, perhaps. I am the fulcrum upon which the fate of this world hinges. Needn’t? Ha!_

The Ring nodded, a cup of tea (of all things!) appearing in Its hand. _That is what you are,_ It said pointedly, _but I speak of what you are obligated to do. You certainly owe these fools nothing, least of all your life. They created this mess themselves._

Frodo conceded the point with a slight incline of his head. _Be that as it may, I am the only one qualified to do this,_ he pointed out. _Besides, I'm here and prepared. Better I than some other poor sod._

The Ring gave him another look. Is _it better, really? Why should you suffer again, after everything you've already endured?_

Frodo snorted, refilling his glass and knocking back the Firewhiskey in another vicious motion. _And what do you propose I do instead?_ he jeered. _Sit around twiddling my thumbs? Make nice with the Elves? Maybe hurl myself into the Bruinen and end it all?_

_No,_ It said, unbothered by his mockery, _I propose you either leave me to the others or hand yourself over. My servants could not hurt you even if they wanted to, and once I am returned to my full self I guarantee you a swift and painless_ —permanent— _death._

Frodo paused and stared at the Ring for a long moment. _This is a piss-poor attempt at manipulation,_ he said finally, _especially for you._

The Ring smiled, sharp canines glinting in the flickering firelight. _Would you believe me if I said it was not manipulation, but my genuine opinion?_

He considered this. _Strangely, I would believe you. But I still wouldn't do it._

_Well then,_ It sighed, _go on. Be noble and self-sacrificing, but don't say I didn't try to dissuade you._

Frodo smirked and inclined his head. _Acknowledged and ignored,_ he snarked.

-

“I will take the Ring,” Frodo said quietly, shaking free of the vision. The Council was utterly silent, making his quiet declaration echo about the space as though he had shouted it at the top of his lungs. “I will bear this burden.”

Elrond’s eyes flicked to him, piercing in their intensity; Frodo met it head-on, raising his chin higher. “I think this task is appointed to you, Frodo Baggins,” he said at length. “A heavy burden indeed. Too heavy for me to lay on any person.” His eyes gleamed with something Frodo couldn’t quite decipher. “But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right—and that your seat may rightfully be among the Elf-friends of old.”

Something hot and resentful bubbled up in Frodo’s chest, nearly escaping him in the form of a derisive scoff. But he suppressed it, shoved it down and hid it, and instead dipped his head in silent acknowledgment. Deep inside, where even the Ring could not hear, he seethed with loathing. _Elf-friend, elf-friend, as if I would want_ — _!_

Sam, like a grand cosmic joke, chose that exact moment to pipe up from his corner. “But you won’t send him off alone surely, Master?” he cried, leaping up. Frodo sighed and rubbed at his forehead, both relieved and exasperated by his friend’s interjection.

“No indeed!” said Elrond. “You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.”

“Oh you’ve done it now, Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo murmured with grim humor.

Sam echoed the sentiment.

* * *

 

It was shortly clear that it would be weeks before they could leave. Frodo stole away, using skills gained over hundreds of lifetimes to fade from the group’s attention and retreat deep into the forests that surrounded Rivendell. The aura of oppressive cheer lessened greatly with distance; he didn’t stop walking until he could breathe freely. “Fuck,” he wheezed, sinking to his knees and bracing himself against the thick trunk of a tree. Black despair rolled over him in wave after wave, until he was trembling and fighting back tears.

(trembling for the first time in a long time, for the first time in _so long,_ and he _hated_ it, he hated himself, he hated this _weakness,_ but most of all he hated the gods that had _left him to this_ — _!_ )

“Again and again and _again!_ ” he whispered, slamming his fist into the tree. The skin over his knuckles split under the force of his strike; blood oozed over his pale fingers in thick crimson streaks. He leaned forward, ignoring the blood and the pain, and pressed his forehead against the rough bark. This world was too close, too familiar. Some worlds were easier, being so alien that he could almost ignore his eternal fate, lose himself in novelty.

But not this one.

“And I’m always the _stupid_ sacrificial lamb. Can’t you just let me _fucking die?_ ” He pressed his damaged fist harder against the bark, using the pain, but it wasn’t enough to stop the enraged, helpless sob that escaped him.

No amount of pain could stop the ones that followed either.

* * *

 

Gandalf puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, gazing at Frodo through considering, half-lidded grey eyes. Frodo tried not to snarl like a feral beast beneath the scrutiny. “Well now, my boy,” said the Wizard, “We’ve nearly come to a consensus on the members of the Fellowship, but I thought it best to consult you first.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Frodo drawled sarcastically, leaning his elbows against the armrests of the over-large chair and steepling his fingers together. It had been a week since the Council. He didn’t bother to curb his tongue, nor coat it in honey, since he and Gandalf were alone. “Go on then. Who are these companions you High Lords have oh-so-carefully chosen to accompany lowly, helpless little me, hmm?”

“Sam you know,” said he. “Aragorn will accompany you until he must turn for Gondor, along with Boromir, and together you four shall represent the Secondborn.” Frodo nodded, relaxing a bit. He liked Aragon and suspected he could get on with Boromir well enough. Sam was… well, _Sam._ “For the dwarves, Gimli son of Gloin and Borbur son of Bombur.” Here Frodo made a deep, appreciative sound in the back of his throat. He liked both, though their acquaintance was brief. Gandalf continued, “For the elves,” (the hobbit curled his lip) “Legolas Thranduilion and Lord Glorfin—”

“NO!”

The fireplace roared with Frodo’s shout, tongues of flame licking outward in wild conflagration. Gandalf jumped, moving quickly to put out the fire that had mysteriously started in his long white beard.

“Frodo Baggins!” he thundered, matching the hobbit’s glare. The shadows in the corners of the room deepened in response to his ire, “There is no need to throw a tantrum simply because you do not care for Lord Glorfindel!”

Frodo seethed, teeth bared and eyebrows drawn together. “I _refuse_ —” he started.

“Lord Glorfindel is, at the least, a valuable and skilled ally,” Gandalf said, cutting him off. “Put aside your pride and loathing for a moment and _think!_ ”

Frodo growled wordlessly, digging his fingers into the armchair until the fine upholstery split beneath his nails. He trembled with the effort of controlling his rage (and betrayal, he felt betrayal, _why?_ Betrayal only came when you trusted and Frodo _did not trust_ ) until finally the flames began to die, leaving the stone around the fireplace scorched black. “And what of Merry and Pippin,” he managed to bite out. “I would rather they than…”

Gandalf still looked vaguely irritated,  a good bit of his beard blackened and patchy. “They are returning to the Shire to prepare your people for the possibility of war,” said he. “We would not leave the Shire defenseless. Moreover, Pippin has yet to reach his majority, and the elves are dead-set against sending a child into war.”

The hot rage in Frodo’s heart subsided, icing back over into cold bitterness. He settled down into the chair, steepling his fingers again, and considered Gandalf’s words for a time. “Very well,” he said at length, when the fireplace had long died into smoldering embers. His voice was smooth and dark, carrying an undercurrent that set Gandalf ill at ease. “There will be consequences, you understand.”

Gandalf nodded slowly. “Ah, but good or ill?” he asked rhetorically. “I dare say even you cannot know.”

* * *

 

They set out in the night, once all the scouts had returned and all the fine details been settled. It was by that time nearly January. Merry and Pippin had (reluctantly and with great effort on Frodo’s part) set out for the Shire a month before, intent on warning and preparing their people. “Nine walkers against nine riders,” Elrond said as they departed. _And one dark lord on a string,_ Frodo added in his head with a quiet snort. The Ring did the mental equivalent of rolling Its eyes.

_I should give you a proper name,_ Frodo mused a few days later as the Fellowship walked… and walked… and walked some more. The Ring awoke from the dim, trance-like state Frodo had begin to refer to as ‘sleep’ in his head.

_A name?_ It asked, incredulous at the suggestion. _I have a name. And it was not sleep, to correct your misapprehension._

_It’s sleep-like enough to be called sleep,_ Frodo countered as he scrambled over a log, close on Strider’s heels. _But that’s not the point. You’re not quite Sauron, especially not now. You’ve become your own person, shaped separately by your own experiences, and therefore you need a name. Besides, I don’t want to call you “the Ring” forever, not when we converse regularly. It’s weird._

The Ring was silent for a long time, but it was a deep, thoughtful kind of silence. It spoke again just before dawn as the Fellowship made camp. _My name is not Sauron,_ It said, softly. _I have never truthfully referred to myself as such, though my followers often use that name for effect._

And this… Frodo hadn’t known, hadn’t a clue, and he couldn’t help but ask the obvious question. _What was your name, then?_

Another moment of silence, rich with a dozen mingled emotions (and since when did It have such a depth of feeling? Was this Frodo’s influence at work?), then, so softly he almost missed it: _Mairon. My name is Mairon._

Frodo smiled a bit, shifting on his bedroll, and settled in to sleep. _Mairon it is._

* * *

 

It was snowing, which was, apparently, Not a Good Thing.

Gandalf and Strider and Glorfindel had their heads bent together as they bickered. Frodo watched them through half-lidded eyes as the rest of the Fellowship stood and shivered around him. Glorfindel’s golden hair whipped about wildly in the freezing, howling winds, flecked with white snow, and Frodo followed the motions in a thoughtful trance.

Finally, Strider threw his hands up with an exasperated noise and a shake of his head. “Onward then,” said he. “We shall risk it.”

Glorfindel glanced over in time to catch Frodo’s considering gaze. An unreadable expression crossed his face before he turned away. _What did you see in my eyes, elf-Lord?_ Frodo mused as they trekked deeper into the hostile, unnatural storm. _Contempt? Hate? The promise of future retribution?_

_He probably saw an upstart hobbit with strange powers and an inexplicable understanding of the world glaring at him,_ Mairon snarked. The cold made It grumpy, much to It’s bearer’s amusement. _I am a spirit of fire and earth, conceived in the heart of an active volcano! Of course I loathe the cold!_ It huffed, catching Frodo’s stray thought.

_There there,_ Frodo drawled back. _You’ll be plenty warm by the end of our journey._

If Mairon’d had a face, its expression would have been twisted in offense.

* * *

 

The Redhorn Gate was bad, even for Frodo.

He debated with himself (and Mairon, sometimes) about whether or not to reveal the full extent of his ability to the Fellowship as they struggled upward, wind howling around them like a living thing, cutting through their clothing as if they were bare. Gandalf and Glorfindel already knew about his strange abilities, and both Sam and Strider suspected, but what of the others? Legolas would likely take it well, but the dwarves might not, and Boromir least of all. For all that he got along with the Man (it took only a little knowhow to soothe his wounded pride, play up to his civic conscience, convince him Frodo was a friend) he likely wouldn’t take well to ‘another’ Wizard, especially not since Frodo was carrying Mairon.

He was still undecided, even half-frozen in the snow, when the decision was made for him as they huddled around the pathetic excuse for a fire.

To Moria, secrets intact, it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Q&A Mostly written for the hooligans on ff.net, but I thought I'd add it here too
> 
> Q: Why is Frodo such a dick to the elves?  
> A: the elves tend to be rather condescending even at the best of times, mostly because their lives are, literally, eternal. Most middle-earth elves are thousands of years old. Frodo, however, is not only far, far older than any elf (and most Ainur) but far more experienced. There are no peaceful gaps in Frodo’s lives. He’s been living every variety of existence for millennia without an end in sight. Even the slightest hint of condescension from beings who should, by all rights, understand his pain enrages him. You’ll notice that he loves his hobbitish cousins/friends/uncle and gets along well with both men and dwarves, even if he is consistently grumpy.
> 
> Q: Why is Frodo always so angry?  
> A: If you’ve ever been depressed and suicidal (like I am, which is where this characterization comes from), you’ll have some idea of why Frodo is like this. Imagine being in emotional (and, occasionally, physical) agony. Imagine being in agony at all times. Now, imagine that you literally cannot end that agony in any way. Even if you kill yourself, it’ll just start over. Now, imagine that not only are you in agony all the time, but you are expected to sacrifice yourself over and over and over. It’s so hard not to hate the world for what we experience in a single lifetime, much less eternity!
> 
> Q: You ruined Harry! Why not just make an OC if you want to write Emo angst? (literally someone on FF sent me a review with this premise)  
> A: ??? You have a remarkably one-dimensional view of Harry-canonically-angsty-Potter if you don’t think literal millenia of torment wouldn’t realistically turn him into a grumpy, touchy cynic. I specifically have little bits of “Harry” pop up all over the place--the way he volunteers to be the sacrifice every damn time, the way he still helps where he can, the way he never even considers leaving others to bear the burden he’s called upon to bear. For God’s sake, go read Bilbo’s description of Frodo in the first chapter and tell me that’s not his ‘original’ Harry-personality shining through.


End file.
